Destiny of a Fallen God
by Similaun
Summary: A fallen god, presumed dead by everyone including himself, suddenly finds himself to to be very much alive. The wormhole has taken him through time and space to Earth, 1938 - but where will destiny take him? Post-movie, mix of movieverse, legends, comics.
1. Chapter 1: Leaving Asgard

**Leaving Asgard**

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><p>A god is a god, even if he is vain and spiteful and thoughtlessly cruel.<p>

A god remains a god, even if he is a god in disgrace, a god shackled to Destiny like a mangy dog to his kennel.

A god will die a god, even if he could have lived when he had accepted his own faults.

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><p>He had blundered, and not just a little bit. His whole mad, convoluted scheme had come crashing down upon his head, and though this was neither the first time he had been scheming nor the first time his plans had miserably failed, he knew that this time he wouldn't be easily forgiven. These hadn't been the tricks of a child or the lies of an awkward adolescent. These had been the terrible and irreversible deeds of god, and they would be punished as such.<p>

He didn't fear the punishment. He didn't fear the shame, either, nor did he fear his brother's anger, his mother's grief, or his father's disappointment. All those things he deserved, and he would have faced them with his head bowed in resignation. He would have done anything to regain their love, if only he felt worthy of it.

But he didn't.

The truth had slowly come to him in the past few days. It had waked at the back of his mind as he'd executed a simple scheme of his. Perhaps this one had been just a bit more dangerous than the regular ones, but it had nonetheless been well-intentioned at heart. It also worked like a charm, filling him with the satisfaction of having brought his arrogant brother a couple of pegs down without getting anyone hurt.

Then, of course, a myriad of possibilities to further mischief had presented themselves. His one victory had made him hungry for more, and so he took advantage of each of them. Each one was a little more dangerous than the previous one, a little more vicious, and all the more worth it for their possible yield.

The truth at the back of his mind had grown clearer, his conscience nudging him to acknowledge it even through the glorious haze of victory that clouded his mind. Instead of listening to it, he had tried to erase it, to make it obsolete, by destroying all evidence of his wrongs. He overreacted. It was then that he had slipped from casual mischief into well-intentioned evil.

But even outright evil did not bring the results that the he and his world needed so much. It had only brought ruin and despair, as evil is wont to do. And in the middle of ruin, justice finally caught up with him.

Now, amidst the splinters of his plans, he struggled to maintain his grip on a life that was rapidly slipping away from him. And here, on the brink, he finally perceived the truth: He enjoyed his mischief. He enjoyed the schemes, and the tricks, and the chaos he wrought. It was as much a part of him as his keen mind and his magical skills. No amount of his parents' love or his brother's easy camaraderie could ever remedy the gleeful treachery that lurked in his heart; and they would never see it. They believed in punishment, and forgiveness, and love. They would never do what was required to get rid of that evil—to get rid of him.

So he did it himself.

He let go of life. He chose to die, embracing despair to escape his yearning for life, and love, and redemption. And as the abyss wrapped its cold arms around him, he looked one last time at his father and brother and saw the loss in their eyes.

Then he died, and the void took him.

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><p><em>So begins the story of a certain Norse god on earth. Reviews are much appreciated :)<em>


	2. Chapter 2: Coming to Earth

**Coming to Earth**

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><p>It was on a murky winter day in 1938 that the gray clouds above the county of Essex spat out something very unusual. It wasn't very large—perhaps only two meters long and half a meter wide. No one in the nearby settlement had seen it fall. However, all of them had heard a sound somewhat akin to an enormously loud gunshot, or perhaps a huge balloon being popped—all of them with the exception of deaf old Joe, of course. But even he couldn't deny that there had been some strange kind of tremor to the ground, almost like an earthquake, and that dust and rubble had rained down on his village for almost ten minutes afterward.<p>

It had taken the local villagers less than an hour to find out what had caused these strange phenomena, mostly because it wasn't very difficult. All they had to do was hazard a rough guess at the direction from where the sound had come and walk in that direction. The impact crater was very hard to miss—it was elliptical in shape, with a transverse diameter of roughly six hundred meters, and occupied a space where before had been half a hectare of perfectly good farmland, a stretch of road, a grove of elm trees and a small brook. Now there only was a dent in the earth, so hot that all the water the brook spilled into it immediately evaporated, and it smelled of baked clay and charred wood.

It also seemed to be very much empty.

The handful of villagers that stood murmuring at the edge of the crater didn't let that deter them. Despite the fact that there hadn't been any fireball to speak of, and _especially _despite the fact that there wasn't anything in the crater, they didn't doubt for a second that something from outer space had landed here.

The object itself didn't doubt that either.

He had spent countless years out there, floating through the cold emptiness as light and unfeeling as a cloud of stardust. It had been his home, both his Hel and his Valhalla; a place where he could neither escape from the pain of his bruised and guilty heart nor from the ageless beauty of the galaxies that passed him by. It had been both a fitting punishment and a fitting reward. He had surrendered himself to it like he never had to anything before, and at last his every-working mind had found some semblance of peace.

The thought that he might not be dead never intruded upon him.

He was sleeping the sleep of eons when a strange sensation awakened him. After a moment's thought, he identified this sensation as _feeling_. Satisfied that this small riddle had been solved, he drifted back to sleep.

Then, of course, he jolted awake in panic. He opened his eyes and saw that he was no longer drifting—he was falling, plunging at a shocking speed towards a green-blue-white planet that was already alarmingly close. What he had felt was the touch of space dust—a sure sign that he was somewhere within a solar system—for the first time in uncountable years.

He found that his mind was already working at full capacity. It didn't seem slowed or hindered by its long years of stagnation; instead it seemed invigorated. This pleased him a little bit, but not very much—mostly because he wouldn't have much longer to enjoy its company. Judging by the rate at which the planet drew closer, he was going to hit it at a speed of approximately a hundred kilometers per second. By now he could feel more things brushing him, perhaps space dust or even the first lonely gas molecules. This was going to take less than five seconds. It was probably also going to be very hot, very unpleasant, and very dea_HOLY SHIT I AM STILL IMMORTAL._

He instinctively threw the entire force of his considerable powers into battle against the rapidly nearing surface of the planet, willing it to stop pulling at him with its damned gravity, willing himself to slow down—but it grew closer, the gas was now pelting him like hail and he suddenly got the absurd urge to _breathe_—

The temperature was rising very fast now. He had definitely hit the atmosphere and he was still going too fast. Clouds were swishing by. _Dear Gods_, he thought in desperation, casting his plea out to the Big Gods he suspected always watched the actions of the small ones like him. _Dear Gods,_ _please don't let me die today…_

He had slowed down to the still-considerable speed of only several hundred meters per second when his time was up and he slammed face-first into English countryside. The results were predictably ghastly. His armor shattered; his clothes simply evaporated. Every bone in his body turned to a loose pile of splinters. His skin suddenly felt like the latex of a water balloon: thin, stretched taut, a hairsbreadth away from bursting and spewing its wet contents all over the place. His brain turned into a puddle of goo. For a brief moment his near-indestructible body was wrecked, dashed to pieces, and his soul only a whisper away from perishing.

Then his immortality won out.

His brain was the first thing that pulled itself together. Then his bones mended, his limbs reattached themselves, and his internal organs wormed themselves back into their proper place. Within the blink of an eye, he was whole again, and the awful sensation of exploding into a million fleshy bits was gone. It was replaced by an alarming, bone-deep weariness that he recognized immediately. It was the magician's fatigue, and it was more deadly than his impact could have ever been.

All around him the smoking debris of his impact rained down on the pitiful remains of a farmer's field. He hardly noticed it. The huge exertion of healing his body had left him with senses as dull as a butter knife, and his thoughts had slowed down to a weary crawl.

He found himself toying with the thought of quietly slipping away. Once, long ago, he had decided to die. It had turned out to be a good choice. Now he could die again, leaving a beautiful and tranquil corpse in this crater for the humans to gawk at while he ascended to his ancestors in Valhalla.

Then he thought of the terrifying moment in which he had awoken from his eternal sleep; how his mind had jumped into motion, and how he suddenly had feared for the life he thought he'd sacrificed so long ago.

He realized that he did not want to die. If he'd wanted to kick the bucket, he shouldn't have pushed the brakes ten seconds ago. Without slowing down, he would have crashed into the planet at the third of light speed, probably resulting in the same kind of destruction one got when blasting a bullet through a watermelon. The impact would have annihilated him—immortality could only do so much for a man—and probably everything else on the planet as well. The destruction of this realm would have been memorable, spectacular, and it would probably also have upset his father to no end. It would have been worth it.

But here he was, lying face down in a smoldering crater in some mortal farmer's field, struggling against the fatigue with all his might. If he truly wanted to live through this he needed sustenance. For only the third time in his life, he needed to breathe to stay alive.

He moved his head back just enough to pull his face out of the clay and gasped for air like a drowning man reaching the surface. The air answered his call, rushing into his burning lungs and filling them with blissful cool. He breathed out, then in again. After all those years in the vacuum of space the air tasted sweeter than honey. His mind quietly analyzed its contents: 78 percent nitrogen, 21 percent oxygen… a percent of argon… a smattering of other gases.

Slowly and limply, moving as little as possible, he rolled his bruised body over and stared with pale, unseeing eyes at the grey sky above.

He should have known. The Norns had a taste for disturbingly appropriate retributions; and in this case their cruel fingers had deposited him on the same plane where he had once managed to imprison his brother.

He had been brought to Earth.

For a couple of minutes he stayed where he was, just to get used to the strange sensation of breathing. Then, once he was confident that he could continue with it automatically, he rolled onto his side and from there slowly and painfully worked himself up to sitting position. The filmy layer of dust that had gathered on his body slid off without leaving a trace.

When he looked around, he could see nothing but the crater bedding. Here, at the site of impact, it was probably close to fifty meters deep, and the big lens-shaped curve around him was covered in debris. A nearby stream flowed into the crater, evaporating as it trickled over the scalding hot bedding.

I need to move, he thought. The humans will come and look for what fell here, and I am weak. They will find me.

He considered standing up but decided against. Not yet. While his true injuries had been healed, he was still sore to his bones, and he doubted he would get far before collapsing. He needed to make another sacrifice to this mortal world before he could go.

Without much pleasure, he turned his thoughts inward. His stomach came alive with a small rumble and he winced at the unexpected feeling. He would go hungry in a short while—he, who had never been hungry before—but at least the energy he spared by this measure would be available for more important things like running and hiding.

He rose with some difficulty. He did not realize that he was an extraordinary sight to behold; pale, pristine, a thing of beauty untouched by the dirt and destruction that stained everything around him. His whole body glowed, not just with the latent heat of his rapid descent to earth but also with something different—something not altogether mortal.

His mind, however, was clouded with bitter thoughts of death and survival. He did not see how much different, or perhaps how much the same, he looked under the wan light of this strange star. Instead felt very much vulnerable as he slowly picked his way through the field. He was wrecked, powerless, and already hungry. It wasn't the touch of divinity that gave grace to his stumbling steps. It was nothing more than the sheer power of his will, gathered in a futile attempt to avoid leaving footprints on the hard-baked clay.

His painful feet carried him more than three kilometers before he finally collapsed under the low branches of a weeping willow, sleeping even before his head hit the ground. There the fallen god slept the dreamless sleep of the truly exhausted, and he didn't even stir, much less wake, in all of the next three days.

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><p><em>Well, that's it for this week, and probably also for the next :( busy busy busy. Hope you like it so far!<em>


	3. Chapter 3: Meeting the Humans

**Meeting the Humans**

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><p>He awoke to the sound of guns.<p>

For a moment, he just lay there—hungry, cold and bruised to the bone. _Do I feel better than before? _He doubted it. He could still feel the magician's fatigue clamping down on his every muscle. _Which means rest doesn't replenish my energy here. And if rest doesn't help me, what will?_

The detonations in the distance continued. Now they were accompanied by triumphantly barking dogs and the sound of splashing water. _A hunt_, said the cold, logical part of him. _They will find you._ And then: _You can't flee, silly. You're too tired._

He shook his head, stubbornly willing himself to sit upright. His head swam, and suddenly his vision was filled with lights. For a moment he sat. His eyes, so used to the splendor of the galaxy, hardly saw the grey-looking forest beyond the swirling specks of color. For a moment he imagined he was back among the stars.

Then his resolve crumbled. He fell back into the hollow between the tree roots—a naked, thin man curling up around the agonizing emptiness of his own stomach.

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><p>A hand touched his forehead. Warm. He could hear men talking, speaking a language he had not heard in ages: modern English. In the background he could hear the whining of dogs and the deep, measured breathing of horses.<p>

Humans. And never, ever, had a human been so foolish as to touch him.

He pulled away. In his mind he snarled in disgust, but the exhaustion muffled his words. Only a confused mumble came out. 'Don't... filthy human... touch me.'

The hand returned. 'Lacks in manners as well as clothing,' a man with a posh accent said. _A rich boy. _

'I could lend him my coat,' a rougher voice suggested.

He lifted his arm in a futile attempt to push the hand away. 'Well, he's not as cold as you'd expect,' the rich boy noted, 'and he doesn't have a fever either. He's just exhausted.'

'And naked,' someone else supplied. Several voices laughed.

'And naked,' agreed the rich boy. 'Hayden, can I take you up on your offer?'

'Sure,' said the rough voice.

Suddenly, something warm and heavy was draped over him. It was a heavy woolen raincoat, filling his nostrils with the smell of horses and damp leaves. He gratefully drew it closer.

'Can you talk?' asked the rich boy.

'He already talked, remember?' said Hayden. 'Called you filthy.'

The rich boy ignored him. 'What is your name, stranger?'

His name. It tasted of bitterness and deceit. He silently mouthed the syllables, feeling their familiar shape on his tongue. _It is familiar to me. But to them? A rare name. An exotic name. A name of legend. Whatever age this is, they cannot possibly have forgotten me. _

_Can they?_

He scoured his memory for other names, but fond none. _Pick a name. A human name. Any name. _

He opened his eyes to the leafless canopy of the Midgard forest. Beyond it, the sky was a bleak evening grey. 'What is _your_ name, rich boy?' he asked.

In the corner of his eye, he saw a dark-haired young man with features so human—and so _English_—that he had to repress a shudder. The rich boy was dressed sensibly, however. Now _that _was a rare occurrence among wealthy humans; almost as rare as the look of unfeigned curiosity on his face.

'My name is Brian... Brian of Harlow.' The dark-haired man cautiously extended his hand.

_That's the most featureless name I've heard in all my life, _he thought bitterly. _But Hayden... Hayden is fairly modern. Let's pick something modern, then. Something suitably Scandinavian. _

His arm felt like lead, but he reached for the boy anyway. 'I'm glad to make your acquaintance, Brian,' he said. His voice sounded stronger now. 'My name is Loren Olsen. Of Helsingborg.'

They shook hands.

'Norway, eh?' Hayden said in the background.

The man who was now named Loren Olsen looked up. Hayden was blond, and on his very English face was a profoundly sceptical scowl. 'Sweden, actually,' Loren corrected him faintly.

'We should get you out of here,' Brian of Harlow said. 'The temperature will drop below zero in an hour or so.'

Loren Olsen glanced up at the canopy again. _Middle of the English winter. I should be glad I'm not buried under several inches of snow. _

He closed his eyes. He could hear Hayden stomp away, issuing orders to the rest of the hunt as he went. A deep thudding sound told him that someone had mounted a horse and gallopped off. Brian of Harlow was still hovering over him, unsure what to do next.

'We're calling a car,' Brian promised. 'We'll get you some towels, and maybe a bite to eat... do you think you can walk?'

Loren chuckled in the back of his throat, but he said nothing. The coat was warmer than any blanket had ever been, and his exhaustion pulled him back into dreamless sleep.

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><p>He drifted in and out of sleep. Sometimes he was among humans with worried faces, who gave him tasteless food and tasteless drinks. Sometimes he was among the stars, floating without a sense of time or direction. Most of the time, he just lay thinking with his eyes closed. There was much to do. Much knowledge to sort through, to organize, to remember; and many exercises to do, time and time again. His mind had gone rusty in his time among the stars, and that just wouldn't do.<p>

But having a working mind, and a working memory, brought difficulties as well.

He wasn't dead. Oh, it was not like he'd denied that before, but only now he started to grasp the consequences of his being alive. There had been no redemption, no end to the evil in his heart. His time among the galaxies hadn't been a reward or punishment for anything—it had just been the time the Norns needed to drag him back to Midgard.

The more he thought on it, the less he thought it was coincidence. There were more galaxies in this universe than drops of water in a waterfall. There were more stars than there were snowflakes on Jotunheim. And of all the myriad things in the universe one could crash into, of all the planets circling all those billions of stars, he had crashed down on Earth. Things like that didn't happen by chance. Someone or something, be it a natural force or a supernatural entity, had taken him here.

He was determined to find out what had done this to him—and why. With a certain grim kind of satisfaction he realized that this time, his actions would not be able to hurt anyone he cared about. There were only humans on Midgard. And with the Bifröst destroyed, the other Aesir could not interfere with his plans. He might be stuck down here, but at least they were stuck up there.

That thought almost cheered him up.

By his guess, it was almost three weeks after his collision with the English countryside when he decided to stop being ill. He hadn't felt exhausted in a long time; apparently the food and drinks, however mundane, had at least healed his body. That didn't stop the humans from monitoring him with unusual concern, though.

He was immediately reminded of that concern when he sat up and swung his legs over the side of his hospital bed. 'Mister Olsen!' a sharp voice rang. 'You can't do that!'

Loren scanned the ward. There were a dozen or so other beds there, most of them empty. There was a guy with decidedly yellow-looking skin (_probably caused by liver failure_) a couple of beds over, and near the window was a woman who was so thoroughly wrapped in bandages you nearly couldn't see her face (_probably a traffic accident_).

At the foot of his own bed stood a woman with her hands pressed firmly to her sides. She was tall and thin, with an old-fashioned haircut framing her narrow, bony features. At the moment her facial expression held an interesting point somewhere halfway between indignant and thoroughly baffled. Loren eyed her with cool disdain. 'Of course I can,' he said.

To his surprise all the air seemed to go out of her at once. 'Well, if you think so, sir,' she said, sounding dubious. 'But the head nurse says...'

Loren cut her off. 'Where am I?'

'In the long-term ward of the Colchester Regional Hospital, sir.'

'And what is the date?'

'Today? The sixteenth of February, sir.'

_So my guess was only off a day or so. _He barged on. 'Which year?'

She laughed nervously. 'You haven't been out _that _long, Mr. Olsen,' she said. 'We're still in 1938.'

He groaned and fell back on the bed, prompting her to scuffle over and immediately check his pulse. He didn't protest or try to push away her clammy hands. _1938, _he thought. _Dear Greater Gods, the wormhole didn't just take me through space_—_it took me through time, too. Nothing I did has happened yet. _

And then: _Bifröst still works. If Heimdall was watching Earth at the moment of my fall... _

He sat upright again, then stood, thoughtlessly shouldering away his worried nurse. 'Can you get me some clothes?' he asked her. 'I need to go.' He wiped disdainfully at the shoulder of his hospital pajamas.

The nurse stepped back. She seemed hesitant now, as if he'd said something wrong. 'Mister Brooks said he would bring you your clothes as soon as you woke up. Would you like us to notify him?'

_Brian Brooks? Not very likely. Hayden Brooks. _

'Yes, please.'

Loren watched her go. Only now he realized that the nurse, while tall for a human, was actually almost a head shorter than he was. _I'm not very inconspicuous. _He sat down on his bed and grabbed the mug of water that stood on his nightstand. First his reflection altered with the undulating surface; then, very suddenly, the water grew as still and reflective as a mirror.

Loren Olsen sighed. Then he resolutely leaned forward and gazed at the reflection of a not-quite-mortal.

_Well, that could have been a lot worse. _He had lost weight. The bones of his face were very pronounced under his sallow skin, and it even seemed he had gained a couple of wrinkles. His pale eyes, however, had lost none of their intensity.

_Too intense, _he decided. _And I bet my skin is not nearly sallow enough to pass for average. Why do those humans have to be so... homely? _Again he wondered what Thor had ever seen in that Jane woman. _Apparently this is the way it is. I'm not going to change my features_—_not when I can hardly keep this water under control. _

He sighed again and released the water from his spell. It responded by turning troubled and sloshing over the edge of the mug. _I bet Brian and Hayden told the nurses I'd try to run... well, no chance of that. I don't feel like running through the English winter in a hospital pajama today. I might as well go to bed again. _

Loren put the mug back on his nightstand and wormed his way back under the covers. They didn't seem very warm to him anymore. _If Heimdall has seen me… well, that would be rather interesting, now would it? I've always wondered what would happen if I met a past version of myself. _


	4. Chapter 4: An Interesting Conversation

**An Interesting Conversation**

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><p>Though Hayden Brooks was neither a small man nor a man lacking in resources, the suit he had (none too graciously) provided to Loren was a disappointment. They ensemble was too short, too shabby, and worst of all: khaki.<p>

_Anyone can see that I was _made _to wear green. _He glanced at Hayden's own clothes—a dark brown suit and waistcoat with a long cut; a white dress shirt; a red tie. Probably the latest fashion. Then he looked up and saw the young Englishman's sour expression. _This is deliberate. He's not here because he is interested in me. Brian of Harlow is, and this Hayden Brooks resents me for it. If it's up to him, I'm not going to make any sort of impression. _

_Maybe that's for the best. _

The man who called himself Loren Olsen self-consciously tugged at his collar. 'I feel a bit naked without a tie,' he said, smiling apologetically.

Hayden Brooks shrugged. 'Do the shoes fit, Mr. Olsen?'

The shoes were uncomfortable, but they would do for at least a couple of days. Right up until the moment he could do without the help of these… gentlemen. 'Well enough,' he said. 'Thank you so much for your kindness, Mr. Brooks.'

'Call me Hayden,' said the Englishman. 'And thank my friend Brian.'

'Very well, Hayden,' Loren said, again producing a friendly smile. He did not, however, offer Hayden to call him Loren. That was definitely a bridge too far.

_Oh, that's a dangerous one, _he realized with some surprise. _A bridge too far… and Market Garden hasn't even failed yet. I must be careful not to use such expressions out loud. _

'I've got a car parked outside,' Hayden said. 'We'll go straight to Brian's estate.' He looked rather grim, probably in an attempt to tell his guest that trying to flee would not be appreciated.

His guest, however, still didn't really feel like running. _Why would I run, Hayden, if I can lie to you?_ 'That's great.'

Hayden nodded to the thin nurse, who had been standing a couple of meters away during their exchange. She nodded back, and then looked at Loren. To his surprise she gave him something that was looked a bit like a motherly smile. 'Take care, Mr. Olsen.'

'Thank you,' he answered gravely.

It seemed that Hayden had arranged all business with the hospital beforehand. As they passed through the ill-lit corridors he only waved and nodded at a couple of people—there were no bribes, no threats, and no forged identity papers. Apparently either Hayden or his friend Brian had some influence here. Judging by Hayden's still-grumpy expression, it was probably Brian.

Soon they were outside. The sky was occupied by a flat, low-hanging sheet of grey clouds that issued a steady downpour of rain. Hayden muttered something rather un-gentlemanly. 'My coat's in the car.' He gestured. 'Follow me.'

They half-ran across the parking lot. There was no avoiding the muddy puddles, so by the time they had found the car Loren's clean clothes were both thoroughly soaked and dirty. Then he had to fold himself in two—or at least, that was what it felt like—to fit inside the car. He didn't feel too happy about it all. And that was _before _Hayden started the engine.

_How can one machine make so much noise? _

Making conversation hardly seemed possible, but Loren quickly tired of looking out of the window. Colchester seemed to be an old town. Normally he took a bit of a liking to those—even though they had narrow streets, impractically built houses and stupid humans, they were… _quaint. _But the old buildings quickly ran out, and soon they drove through street after street full of block-shaped brick heaps.

'Where does Brian live?' Loren half-yelled over the noise of the engine.

'Maidstone!' Hayden yelled back.

'So his family's not nobility?'

Hayden flashed him a confused look.

'He introduced himself as 'Brian of Harlow',' Loren reminded him loudly.

'That's not his family name,' said Hayden.

'Then what is?'

Hayden, however, didn't answer. He just made that rather stony face again and stared out into traffic. _So much for trying to wheedle anything useful out of Hayden Englishface. _

_Well, then. England, February 1938. What do I know? _He thought for a couple of minutes. _Hitler has probably just abolished the War Ministry. It's several weeks, tops, before he annexes Austria. The USA is still in the grip of financial depression, Spain is in civil war, and Walt Disney has just released Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. _

_Why is that all I know? _

It was very, very little. Despite his nearly encyclopedic knowledge about Midgard (and the other planes, of course), he didn't know nearly enough.

_Enough for what? _He sighed and sat back. _Does meeting yourself cause a time paradox? And does said time paradox indeed destroy the universe? _

_I think I'm not curious enough to try it out. _

_So. It has been three weeks, and there haven't been any signs of Asgardian activities. There's two possibilities: either Heimdall didn't see me, or whatever he sent after me hasn't found me yet. _

_That's good. I don't want to be found. I don't want to end the universe—not yet, anyway, but I might change my mind. _He found himself grinning at the possibility and quickly molded his face back into looking slightly bored. _Which means I need to become as inconspicuous as possible in the shortest time possible. _

_Step one: find a way to milk this Brian from Harlow for all he's worth. _

_Step two: find a source of information on history, politics, and behavior in polite society. _

_Step three: find a source of money that does not involve duplicating currency with the help of magic, and use said money to integrate myself into polite society. _

_Method: by my wits, using as little violence and/or magic as possible. _

It actually sounded doable.

The rest of the journey towards Brian's home was long and uneventful. The best word to describe the English countryside was 'murky', and the best word to describe the English roads was 'barely adequate'. Arriving at their destination, however, brought a surprise.

'That is definitely the house of someone with a title,' Loren remarked as Hayden slowly drove through the gate.

'Brian's father is an important man.'

'Ah.' Loren curiously regarded the stately manor house at the end of the driveway. Calling the building opulent would be stretching the truth, but it _was _rather nice-looking for a human house. 'So, important in which sense? Is he a politician? A banker? A judge?'

Hayden didn't answer. It didn't matter, because his face did it for him. _Neither of those. _

'I don't suppose I'll get to meet him, now will I?'

_No again. _

As they approached the manor, a familiar-looking person emerged from the main door. A person in a very recognizable outfit followed him. _The young master and the butler. _

Hayden parked right in front of the house and swiftly got out of the car. He clapped Brian on the shoulder and murmured something in his ear. By the time Loren had managed to unfold himself, Hayden had already disappeared inside.

'Welcome back among the living, Mr. Olsen,' Brian said, walking towards Loren. 'At times thought that you weren't going to make it, and here you are, looking like new.' He sounded jovial, but when Loren shook his hand Brian's grip was just a bit too tight.

_You don't have to overdo it. I know a hint when I see one, thank you very much. _'The nurses took good care of me, Brian,' Loren said graciously. 'I'm indebted to them almost as much as I am to you. Now, shall we get out of the rain?'

Brian's face fell slightly. _No 'sirs' or 'misters' for him. _'Of course, Mr. Olsen.' He turned to the butler. 'Can you park the car for us, Thomas?'

The butler was a straight-backed man with an almost military bearing and iron-gray hair. He didn't look like the kind of person that served rich people, but then again, appearances can be deceiving. 'Of course.'

Brian led the way into the house and down the hallway into the salon. Hayden was already inside, grim-facedly chewing on what looked like an absolutely delicious turkey sandwich. On the table next to him stood a plateau stacked with more sandwiches. Suddenly, Loren realized that he was hungry. _Again? _

'Please, have a seat,' Brian said. He gestured towards one of the many reading chairs. Loren sat down, noting that as he did so Hayden relaxed visibly. _He still thinks I'm up to something. At least he's careful, unlike "too curious for his own good"-Brian. _

Brian sat down, too, and Hayden stood up to hand both of them sandwiches. The room was completely silent until everyone had finished eating.

'I asked not to be disturbed,' Brian said after the long silence. Hayden nodded his approval. 'I think it's best if we bother no-one else with this.'

Loren fought the urge to smile. 'The "this" in question being me?'

'More or less.' Brian didn't smile. Instead, his open human face seemed to close somehow, as if he was turning his thoughts inward. 'You see, Mr. Olsen, I'm a curious man. And last January a couple of very interesting things happened in short succession.' He gave Loren a level look. 'I don't suppose you want to tell us anything about that?'

Loren didn't answer. He hadn't expected the young Englishman to be so serious about this. _Since when do male humans ever have more than a superficial interest in anything besides money and women?_

Brian held up his index finger. 'One: there was a meteorite impact near Little Wigborough.' A second finger followed. 'Two: this immediately attracted disproportionate amount of government interest. There were suits wearing sunglasses all over Essex.' Third finger. 'Three: on the evening of the same day, there is an absolutely _enormous _northern light from Scandinavia to Portugal. And last but not least: three days later, we find _you _naked and bruised from head to toe in the bushes near the Abberton Reservoir.' He held up finger number four.

'Those really are a couple of interesting events,' Loren agreed, smiling pleasantly.

He didn't say anything more, and Brian gave him a sour look. 'Is it too much to presume you'll thank me for my assistance by giving me _any _kind of information?'

Loren shook his head. _Not that he's going to be content with that. _

Suddenly, Hayden spoke. 'I still say he's just some bum, Brian. He was just lying there, dying where he couldn't inconvenience anybody. Like he should.'

Loren raised an eyebrow. Brian looked first at him and then at Hayden, whose facial expression had passed beyond brooding and was now positively glowering. 'No,' Brian said firmly. 'No, Hayden, he's not. He's fit; he's intelligent, he's-well spoken… '

'Well-spoken? He called you filthy!'

Brian rolled his eyes. 'I don't think he even realized he said that. He was dying from exhaustion, remember?'

Loren refrained from also rolling his eyes. _A bum. And here I was thinking that I don't look shabby enough. _

_But I'm curious as to what Brian thinks I am. Does he suspect any supernatural involvement? Probably not. He's too down-to-earth for that. _

_So, to Brian, the options are limited. I could be government official, a scientist… or a spy. That last one is worrisome, times being what they are and all. _

Just then, something intruded upon his easily rolling train of thought. _Wait. Northern light. Aurora Borealis? _

'Well, according to you he's a spy, and according to me he's somewhere between a bum and a con artist. It doesn't matter _which _of those he is—we need to turn him over to the police anyway.'

Loren looked up. Hayden had jumped to his feet. He seemed to be angry—_very _angry.

'Hayden—' Brian tried.

'He's dangerous, Brian,' Hayden snapped. 'And you're over-confident. You think you can solve everything on your own.'

'On my own?' Brian said. 'My _dad _is within shouting distance.'

_There was an Aurora Borealis over all of Europe on the night after I crashed down here? That's really, really flattering. Too bad that it is also several gigantic, ostentatious steps above a meteor crater in terms of 'ways for a physical god to arrive on Midgard'. I need to get off this island immediately… and preferably off this continent, too. _

'Your dad's getting old,' Hayden said coolly. 'He might have been a hero in his time, but…'

Loren rose out of his chair. The time to run had about arrived, and if he warned these two guys about it he might even get the chance to punch Hayden.

Just then, somebody knocked on the door.

'I _told _you I didn't want to be disturbed!' Brian snapped.

'And you said I could interfere whenever I wanted,' a man's voice said. The guy who stepped into the room was broad-shouldered, blond, and a whole lot less English-looking than he sounded.

'Oh.' Brian suddenly looked rather flustered. 'I'm sorry, Roger. I was just having an argument with Hayden, and…'

Hayden looked from Brian to Roger and back. Then he resolutely marched towards the door, shouldered his way past Roger, and stomped off into the hall.

The silence that followed was deafening. Finally Roger came in and closed the door. Brian didn't get up, so Roger gave him an awkward pat on the shoulder and went to sit in the chair Hayden had vacated only moments ago. 'So this is the guy we found near the Reservoir, eh?' he said.

Brian nodded. 'He is.'

'You cleaned up nicely,' Roger said blandly. 'You're not nearly as bruised as when we found you. Khaki's not really your color, though.'

Loren, who still stood in the middle of the room, shrugged. 'It was Hayden's idea of a joke,' he said.

Brian sighed and passed a hand over his eyes. 'You look like you want to leave, Mr. Olsen,' he said. 'Please don't. I think you could do with a bit more help.'

'And you're still very, very curious,' Loren said. His mind was racing. _I know next to nothing. If I run now, I'm going to get in trouble with every single human I encounter. If I can get these guys to co-operate, however… _

'So is he a spy or what?' Roger said.

Brian threw his friend an irritated look. 'He hasn't told us anything yet.'

'Mainly because your friend Hayden kept giving me those dark looks,' Loren supplied. 'That's not the way to go if you want someone to give you classified information.'

He saw both their faces light up the moment he said 'classified'.

'So…' Brian said.

Loren decided to add a bit of drama to the situation. He sat down again and leaned back. Then he closed his eyes and pressed the fingertips of both his hands together; thumb against thumb, index finger against index finger, and so forth. _I am thinking. I am grave, serious and professional, and right now I'm considering to betray the code of honor my kind of people has. Or something like that. _

He opened his eyes. The two humans were watching him, breathless, with eyes sparkling as if Midsummer's night had suddenly come early. _It's like stealing candy from a child. _'I had just arrived here from Germany when I was called to investigate the crash site,' he said, taking care to sound tired. 'Things aren't looking very good.'

'What do you mean, not very good?' Roger asked.

Loren gave him a grave look. 'They're preparing for war.'

'That's impossible,' Brian said flatly. 'There's no way Hitler's that stupid. Germany is still sore from the last ass-kicking we gave them.'

_Oh, he _can _drop the whole 'polite rich boy' thing. I bet this is personal… ah yes. Brian's father was 'a hero in his time', wasn't he? And 'war hero' wasn't among the things I suggested to Hayden in the car. _

'You put your finger right on the sore spot, Brian,' Loren said. 'Germany's struggling to pay the damage reparations. Their economy is weak, their people are poor, and they think the world is treating them unfairly. The way they see it—and especially the way _Hitler _sees it—war is one of the most effective ways to restore their self-worth as a people.'

He could see his arguments swayed them. 'Now, could you perhaps tell me exactly where I am?'

Roger glanced at Brian, who nodded. The broad-shouldered man then scraped his throat. 'You're at Falsworth Manor in Maidstone. In the U.K., if you were unsure about that.'

_Falsworth. Now where have I heard that name before? _'Brian Falsworth it is, then?' Loren asked.

Brian nodded. 'Son of James Falsworth,' he said, a note of pride tingeing his voice. 'And you? Loren Olsen from Helsingborg?'

'For the moment, yes,' said Loren.

Roger gave him a curious look. 'He didn't really tell us anything new, Brian,' he said. 'Just the same things the government tells us. Why don't you tell us anything we don't know yet before we help you any further?'

_And now we arrive at the part where I'm either going to lie until my face falls off, or where I go meddling with time. An interesting choice. _

_Falsworth… a war hero… and his child. His curious, puffed-up, oh-so-human son. _

'I really can't tell you anything more, kid,' Loren said. 'Look, if you don't believe me you can go to Germany on your own. You seem to think you're tough enough.'

'We didn't really want to hear about Germany anyway,' Brian said slowly. 'Can you tell us about the meteorite?'

_Well, let's make him add one and one. Maybe he'll realize it makes two. _'That wasn't a meteorite,' Loren said.

'So it was…' Brian gestured, his eyes widening in realization.

'It's what I've been trying to tell you all this time, Brian Falsworth,' Loren said gravely.

'That's really, _really _bad,' Brian said. 'Roger… I think this man has said enough. We really wouldn't want to inconvenience him any more, now do we?'

…_And scene. Brian Falsworth now knows about the experimental German weapon that hit the English countryside last month. And I didn't really tell him anything. He came up with it all by himself. _

Roger had a slightly confused look on his face, but he nodded anyway. 'If you say so.'

'If I'll get him some cash, will you be so kind as to give him a ride to town?'

'London?' Roger asked.

'Does Maidstone have a railway station?' Loren asked. He already knew the answer. And when Roger shook his head, he added: 'Is there anyplace near here that does?' _I can't be that far from the sea. If I do this right, can be on a ship towards the mainland tomorrow morning. _

'Gillingham, then,' Brian said to Roger. _  
><em>

Loren rose from his chair. 'I'm rather impressed with you both, gentlemen. I hope your friend Hayden isn't always like this.'

'He's just cautious,' Brian said. His heart didn't really seem to be in it, and the look he exchanged with Roger seemed charged somehow.

_He's fought with Hayden before, then. _Then he stopped himself. _It's really none of my business. _'The, ah, bit of financial aid you mentioned, Brian?' Loren asked. 'I could use a good night's sleep before going back to… well, you know.' He gestured vaguely.

_Is MI6 a public secret already, or will that take a couple more years? _

Brian nodded. He rose, too, and pulled a thick wallet from his pocket. 'Would five pounds be about enough?' Then he frowned. 'I'll make that ten.'

Loren took the money—nothing more than intricately decorated pieces of paper—with a grateful smile. 'You're a generous man, Brian. The medical bills alone…'

'It was nothing,' Brian said. 'Especially not since you're… well…' He gestured. 'I knew it.' Then his face creased in a somewhat puzzled frown. 'I'm still wondering why you were naked when we found you, though.'

'Radiation,' Loren said with an absolutely straight face. 'Needed to drop the clothes. They were contaminated.'

Brian nodded. He seemed almost reluctant. 'I wish we could chat some more, Mr. Olsen,' he said. 'There's a lot I don't understand yet. I wouldn't keep you from your duties, though.'

It was simply too tempting to pass up. Loren straightened his back, snapped his heels together and saluted smartly. 'It's been an honor, Mr. Falsworth.'

Brian looked suitably impressed as they shook hands. 'Good luck, Mr. Olsen.'

'Perhaps we'll meet again,' Loren said.

Roger held the door for him as they went outside. He also insisted to opening the door of his automobile for him. For all his good manners, though, he didn't talk during the short ride to Gillingham.

When the man known as Loren Olsen got out of the car it was dark. Roger had stopped the car on a small square close to the historical center—an ideal location. 'I hope what you told us was true, Mr. Olsen,' the Englishman said. There was a vague threat in those words.

_Oh, why did you have to say that? That's just too tempting. _

He thought on it for a moment and then gave in. _Well, then. Let's do it. I've always wanted to meddle in time. Let's see what happens if I step on the butterfly, right here, right now. _

He smiled a thin smile and leaned towards the car. 'Just tell Brian this,' he murmured. 'Germany will move in to occupy Austria next month. They'll call it the _anschluss, _but you will know better. It will be the first step on the path of war.'

_Now that's one well-squashed butterfly.  
><em>

Loren nodded gravely by way of goodbye. Roger nodded back. The movement was a bit forced, but without any real hostility. 'Good luck, Mr. Olsen.'

'Thank you, Mr…'

'Aubrey,' Roger said.

'Thank you, Mr. Aubrey.' Loren closed the door and turned around. Behind him, the car's engine roared to life.

It wasn't raining anymore, but the air was cold. When he looked up to the sky he saw only black. No aurora. _Does that mean I'm safe, or does that mean they're already here? _

His stomach growled. _I wonder if that will ever stop sneaking up on me. _He felt around in his pocket for the money. _I have absolutely no idea what ten pounds can buy me, and if it isn't enough, I don't know if I have enough power left in me to multiply it. _

_Let's find a tavern and find out. _


	5. Chapter 5: Train of Thought

**Train of Thought**

* * *

><p>The man who called himself Loren Olsen had a hard time sleeping. While this hotel was cheap and located on a back street— and thus excellently suited to his purposes—getting a good night's rest proved nearly impossible. He slept with his clothes on, as the blankets were too thin to provide any protection from the cold of an English winter night. His rickety bed creaked every time he moved, and his pillow was lumpy and felt as if it had been stuffed with straw.<p>

He was almost glad for the distraction, because his sleep was restless and filled with swirling lights.

His dreams took him back to space, weightlessly floating among the galaxies. He had longed to be back there, to be absolved and forgotten; yet this time there was nothing peaceful about his voyage. A strange necessity filled his mind. Something needed to be done, and he was the one who _must _do it.

No matter how hard he tried, however, he couldn't go faster. The laws of physics didn't budge—not even for him. His journey would take years, and all that time the urgency would fill his mind. He strained, cursed, pleaded, cried...

… and then he'd wake up in the cold hotel room, shivering, his appeals faltering as he realized that he was directing them at a web-covered board ceiling.

This was the fourth time. At least he could see the ceiling now. Dawn—paltry and wan as it was—had come at last, and it was time for him to move.

Loren Olsen swung his legs over the edge of the bed, groaning as he felt his cold muscles strain. _I hate this place. The thought that someone or something wanted me to be here... _He shuddered, and not from the cold. _Is this my punishment, then? _

_Was the atonement only in my mind? _

He shied away from that line of thought. Now wasn't the time for self-recrimination. Now was the time to plan, to scheme, and to make sure he wasn't anywhere in the general vicinity of Europe when the Blitz hit.

_The Blitz... _

_What am I going to do? _

Yesterday he'd felt that he could just stay in England and wait out the war, but now he wasn't so sure. He rose and walked over to the small bathroom. The tiles were moldy, the pipes were rusty, but the mirror was relatively spotless.

_At least the lack of sleep doesn't show, _he noted. _A small blessing. _He still looked the same as when he saw his reflection in the hospital—too lean and fragile for his tastes, but alive and kicking. Not for the first time he wondered why he hadn't fully recovered yet. Yes, Midgard's magnetosphere made for a very magic-unfriendly environment, but he was supposed to be powerful enough to ignore it.

_So what's wrong with me? _Loren asked himself.

Perhaps his near-death experience had destroyed his capability of gathering new energy. He was probably still rebuilding the... organ? Part of his brain? The... whatever was responsible for that. He supposed there must be a way to kickstart it, but how could he know what to do when he didn't even knew what was wrong with him?

… _and there are way to many perhapses and probablies in that train of thought. _

He sighed and opened the faucet. A cold and slightly muddy-looking stream of water trickled out, and he reluctantly splashed some of it on his face. He smoothed down his hair with his wet hands and then wiped them on his pants.

The most logical thing to do would be to find some kind of power source and use it to literally recharge his powers. Any power plant or nuclear reactor would do, really. Then he realized that he was stuck in 1938 and groaned. The humans wouldn't learn to harness nuclear energy for another fifteen years, and their current fossil fuel plants were not quite sophisticated enough to deal with the kind of power output he needed.

_I could_ always _wait it out, _he reminded himself. Yesterday it had felt like a viable option. Brian Falsworth and his friend had taken stock in every single thing he'd said. Apparently the whole 'silver tongue' thing still worked. He could con himself into a decent living and... survive.

He shuddered at the thought. Whatever sense of security he'd felt before he knew about the aurora borealis was gone, and the dreams had only made his sense of insecurity worse.

_Stay like this? For years? Not bloody likely. _

There was a war coming, and it would be worse than anything he had ever seen. It would kill an estimated fifty to seventy million humans—a shocking death toll, even to those accustomed to war—and the slightest accident could result in him becoming part of that statistic. Not to mention that Heimdall and the other Asgardians were looking for whatever landed in Little Wigborough while he was standing here.

_Then again, I spent several weeks in that hospital and no-one found me. _

An interesting thought came to him. _Perhaps Heimdall can't find me because he's looking for something a lot more powerful than I am... in my current state, that is. So for the moment my curse is also a blessing. I'm a sitting duck, but as long as they don't see me they can't shoot me. _

He sighed. _At least it's something. _

The man named Loren walked back into the bedroom, away from the haunted face in the mirror. He sat down on the edge of his bed. _This isn't going to work this way. I'm confused, out of my depth, and thinking aimlessly. Let's do this right. _

_First question: How much time do I have? _

_Answer: Depends on what I want to do. _He only had a month until the Anschluss. A year until outright war. Hitler would launch the blitzkrieg in the spring of 1940, and he estimated the Battle of Britain would follow in the fall of that same year.

_Refined answer: I need to leave this island within a year. Otherwise I will be stuck here until the end of the war. _

Having a solid time limit made him feel more grounded. Now he could start planning.

_Second question: Planning what? _

_Answer: Planning to get my powers back. _

He didn't have to think long about that one. Without his magic he felt debilitated. Crippled. And like the only advantage of being a cripple was being offered chairs everywhere you went, the advantage of being invisible to the Asgardians was rather paltry. If he wasn't crippled, he would have been perfectly fine with not sitting.

_I can think of ways to evade Heimdall _without_ having my hands tied behind my back, thankyouverymuch. _

And until he was his old self again, his options were severely limited. How far away from the war could he get within the year?

Loren grinned to himself. _World War, _he thought. _There won't be very many safe places in this whole damn realm. _

_Different, third, question: Do I want to get away from the continent of Europe? _

_Answer: If I stay this weak, yes. The farther the better. If my condition improves... we'll see. _

He needed to reclaim his magic first. _So: Fourth Question. What power sources are there on this planet? _

He had already ruled out the power plants and the nuclear energy. He had to look at the older things. Stonehenge was the most reliable, of course, but it only worked a couple of times a year. _And I'll be damned if I remember the ritual. _He wasn't desperate enough to try Cardiff, and he reckoned the humans would've lost Camelot by this time.

_It was a silly place anyway. _

He sighed. So he needed to get off this island. Where to? There were supposed to be several relics hidden in Greece and Egypt, but those things belonged to other pantheons. He wasn't sure he wanted to enter their territories—especially considering his own weakness.

Did he know any friendly pantheons? Or just gods, for that matter?

Loren snorted. _Bah. Asking for help is admitting you've lost. And making friends was never really my thing, now was it?_

So he had to work with what he knew. Which meant: the Asgardians. Did they have any temples left by this time? Any worshippers, any artifacts?

Suddenly he knew. It was as if someone had softly whispered its name in his ear, and the knowledge rang in his mind like a bell.

_How could I be so blind? _he marveled. _I knew it was here. I was the one who found out that we'd lost it, and I was the one who found out where the humans kept it. _

_The Tesseract is here on Midgard. _

The man named Loren Olsen crisply rose and walked towards the window. Last night, he'd noticed that his room was at the back of the hotel, and his one window opened out onto a little-used back street. He had to push quite firmly to open it—made an awful creaking noise, too—but then he could at least see if he had any chance of slipping away unnoticed.

He grinned when he saw the many window-ledges and ridges this red brick building offered him.

Loren turned around, giving the dingy room one last disgusted glance, and put his feet on the ridge under the window. With a few stiff movements he traversed to the rainpipe. Then he clamped his hands around the rusty metal tube and slowly, step by step, made his way down.

He jumped down the last meter, landing on the cobblestone street with a firm _thud_, and wiped his hands on his trousers to get rid of the rust. A quick look around told him that nobody had seen his descent.

_That's easy savings. _

He slipped into a nearby alley, feeling jubilant. _The Tesseract! If only I'd possessed a weapon of that magnitude the last time I was on Earth._

* * *

><p><em>I'm back! <em>


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